


Microcosm

by asuralucier



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Beer, Casseroles, Drunk Hugs, Drunk Something Else, M/M, Post-Season/Series 02, Trick or Treat: Treat, attempted domesticity, attempted hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2020-12-14 16:04:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21018494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: Sometimes, starting over means buying a microwave.





	Microcosm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scorpiod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiod/gifts).

> I saw [this](https://www.healthydebtfreelife.com/1970s-old-fashioned-tuna-casserole/?cn-reloaded=1) 70s recipe for a tuna casserole and your prompt for Holden (attempting) to take care of Bill and the rest is history. I hope you like this.

When Bill comes to the door, Holden wants to tell him he looks like shit. But it’s precisely _because_ Bill looks like shit that Holden says, “I um. Brought you some casserole. And I guess Nancy and Brian too, if they want some. I couldn’t find any ramekins, so it’s all in this one big…thing.” He’d borrowed said thing and some foil from a bewildered neighbor down the hall.

Bill blinks blearily as he sags against his door-frame. He fumbles for a cigarette and lights it. Breathes, says, “What?”

Bill rarely looks like shit. Bill has looked like a range of things leading up to shit: things like pissed off, tired, exhausted, frustrated, but never shit. Holden tries to peek around him into the house, but Bill moves to block his view.

Bill eyes the foiled covered dish with valid apprehension. “Casserole. You make it?”

Holden shrugged. “If you can call opening two cans making something. Yeah, I did. Look, Ted said you’d asked for the week and I thought. I don’t know, that I should come by.” He adds, “Wendy said I should.” And then he wishes he hadn’t.

Bill pities him; Holden thinks, noting the softening glint in the other man’s eye. Usually, that sort of thing bothers him, but Holden has the strangest inkling that maybe Bill needs this today. And so he minds less.

“It still warm?” Bill steps back, and the first thing Holden notices is the picture of the Tenches that usually hangs right on the opposite wall is gone. The wall in its place is an oppressive shade of yellow that reminds Holden very keenly of puke. “I don’t have a microwave.”

** 

Holden takes in the state of Bill’s empty house and concludes that a lack of microwave is probably the least of the guy’s problems. But if Bill wants to fixate on the microwave then, well, who’s Holden to say anything?

He lets Bill take the casserole from him and goes to sit on the only available furniture in what looks like the entirety of the house, a striped bare sofa with lumpy cushions to match. Draped over one arm is a neatly folded blanket.

“We’ll have to eat standing up,” Bill informs him from the kitchen and Holden gets up again. Bill’s back is turned towards him as he pulls open drawer after drawer, as if almost in a trance, like Bill is being possessed by the calmest ghost there ever was. Not that Holden believes in that sort of thing, even if he keeps thinking to himself he ought to start.

“That’s fine.” Holden looks around. There aren’t any chairs, and there isn’t a dining room table either. He leans his elbows on the kitchen island.

Bill is still going through his drawers. “Want a beer or anything?”

Holden takes a moment. He pats his pockets to assure himself that his car keys are still where they should be and that he can flee out the door at any point because this is - he’s not sure quite this is. This place is so still, it might as well be a crime scene. Bill, for one, is certainly scurrying around in his own house like he doesn’t belong. A crime has occurred here, perhaps in this very room. A sin marked by inattentiveness, by impotence but maybe not the groinal kind.

“Sure.”

“Check the fridge.”

Holden opens Bill’s fridge and finds (lots of) beer, milk, remnants of something that looks like takeout that's starting to smell funny. Maybe Bill just hasn't noticed.

“Forks,” Bill exclaims. He holds up two little plastic ones. “I picked up extra, the other day.” Holden steps out of his way as Bill goes and puts the forks on the counter next to the container. Then he peels off the foil and makes a face. “What the hell is this, fish?”

Holden cracks his can. Before taking a drink, he cracks Bill’s too. “Tuna.”

Bill stares some more, but reaches for his beer like he’s on some kind of autopilot. Then he remembers he has a cigarette still in his mouth and stubs it out in a makeshift ashtray that probably used to be another takeout box.

“What else is in here?”

“Cream of mushroom soup,” Holden says. “I used Campbell’s. There’s some Chinese noodles. I thought about some peas but then I thought I’d leave them out. Everything was already cooked before it went in the oven. It’s not like you’ll die.”

“A ringing endorsement if I’ve ever heard one.” Bill scoffs, but digs his fork in anyway.

**

Later, they stick the casserole back in Bill’s oven and retreat to the couch. Bill fetches them two more beers from the fridge and the house grows quieter. Bill’s tetchiness echoes off the walls. He gets up again grab his takeaway box ashtray and puts it at the foot of the sofa for ease of access.

Holden loosens his tie. He can’t remember why he’s wearing one. Habit, maybe, more than anything else.

“Are you going to be back at work next week? Ted only gave you a week, right?”

Bill chews the inside of cheek. “Are you seriously asking me that?”

Holden says, “I could ask you something else. Thought I might start with something practical. Easy.”

The too-used springs of the couch groans in mild protest as Bill gets up. “I’m going to need more beer.”

** 

The house grows quieter, darker. The taste of tuna has long settled in the back of Holden’s tongue, mingling with the beer he really shouldn’t be drinking. It’s all Bill’s fault. Or maybe it isn’t.

“Do you know where they are?” Holden says.

Bill exhales smoke towards the ceiling. “Her mother’s. Maybe. Somewhere else. No, I don’t know.”

Holden stretches. He’s mindful of how his body has been entrenched in this damn couch for what seems like hours. He’s aware that he probably has to piss. But maybe that’s just a special sort of anxiety. The sort that hasn’t quite yet reached his brain for a full differential. He’s also mindful of how his knee has bumped against Bill’s, and how the other man shifts immediately over to give him room.

“It’s not like we don’t have a budget. You could find them. If you wanted.”

“Yeah, like I’m going to use Federal resources for -” Bill cuts himself off and gulps a too-large swallow of beer. Some of it spills down his collar. Then he says, “Jesus _fucking_ Christ.”

**

Bill Tench can probably slam into just about anyone like a truck, Holden included. Exceptions to the rule might include somebody like Ed Kemper, but that’s not exactly something that Holden wants to think about right now.

Bill tastes like tuna, Chinese noodles, cream of mushroom, smoke. All of these things might mingle into something unpleasant in the morning, but now isn’t morning. Holden feels Bill’s fingers wound themselves tightly onto his loosened tie, as if he’s desperate to moor himself to something again.

The couch sags beneath their shared, nearly unnatural weight, but neither of them move. Holden tips the last of his beer down his throat and lets it carry too, the odd taste of Bill down his esophagus.

“I think that’s the last of ‘em,” Bill says, though he doesn’t sound convinced.

“It doesn’t matter,” Holden lets the empty can fall from his grip. And with both hands, with the expanse of his arms, he gathers Bill in and feels the man breathe heavily against him.

“I’m going to need a new microwave.” Bill's voice is muffled against his shoulder. "I'll have to start saving up."

“Yeah,” Holden says and rolls the taste of Bill around in his mouth. Any second now, the couch might give. He’ll have to remember to suggest that Bill throw it out. “You could start with that.”


End file.
